Take me for a 'Late Walk'
by hazy-buttons
Summary: 'Ingrid Third; gift her a poem and you'll win her heart.' FxI One Shot. A possible fluff in obvious doses.


**Author's Note;** _'I'm on it, I'm on it!' _okay, heyFingriders [don't push it guys, I'm really not in the mood for catch-phrases right now :P] It's been so long! I'm still here though? You know, good ol' kaykay with her Fillmore obsession? hm. Well the Coraline FF took me long enough and after a stressful month in my new school [INGRID THIRD PUBLIC ENEMY #1], I am back once again KID-OHS, and on early summer vacay' since Thursday :)  
I don't even know why this had to take me so long. _You know how it is_, you've got to get the idea then build it up then _viola!_ -in my case- a_ tiny weeny_ one shot I thought of during BSE period while reading 'A Late Walk'. I think it's sloppy and cute enough, what can I say? **enjoy.  
**P.S. I wanna read these new Fillmore fics you guys have posted.  
_Peace&Crackers. Late._

**DISCLAIMER; I do not own Fillmore! all credit goes to Scott M. Gimple and Disney.**

* * *

It was late in autumn, and tracing her fingers along the dry, shabby, yellow paper of her poem collection book, Ingrid came across a strictly odd piece. To the best of her knowledge, she thought she had finished reading all of the poems in that book.

More specifically, it was one of her thousands scratch books. Collages, calligraphy, notes, her favorite poems and poets and the aroma of green tea leaves and wood; Her personal heaven.

Curled up in a small chair, she was trying to drown herself in made-up comfort, while her partner was dealing with his undercover-job-training, which seemed quite painful. But this time Vallejo wasn't joking at all and they both couldn't take it. They _had_ personal lives.

After hearing a loud bump she hastily tilted her head up and her eyes met the eyes of her pall.

He was on the ground, a red, badly damaged skateboard and a similarly styled helmet lied next to his torso.

-'At this rate, you'll never manage to get inside the "Lava Skaters" team. Thus, we'll never manage to crack this case.' she grimaced with a playful half grin on her face.

-'And if you keep on babbling, you'll never manage to finish reading your scratch book.' he replied, giving her some usual back talk.

-'But, I've already-...' then she recalled that one mysterious poem. The one she had never seen before, and her glance fell back on the yellow sheet.

"A Late Walk" by Robert Frost. She had never really tried reading any of his poems and that was what made the situation seem even more awkward. Why would she pick that particular piece?

She read the poem as the cool wind messed with her hair.

_When I go up through the mowing field,  
The headless aftermath,  
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,  
Half closes the garden path._

_And when I come to the garden ground,_  
_The whir of sober birds_  
_Up from the tangle of withered weeds_  
_Is sadder than any words_

_A tree beside the wall stands bare,_  
_But a leaf that lingered brown,_  
_Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,_  
_Comes softly rattling down._

_I end not far from my going forth_  
_By picking the faded blue_  
_Of the last remaining aster flower_  
_To carry again to you._

It sounded wonderful, the 'complexion' of words and that superb scenery beyond her book; A bright, orange-colored 'lake' of leaves and the golden, sepia-toned light that made her forget about her _foamy _city life. The poem was a literal _gift from the sky._

She held the paper up, against the pale sunlight. She wanted to _observe _it_, _to_ love _it. Then after only a few seconds she noticed that something was marked with black marker on the back.

She lowered the sheet right away and flipped it over, then heard another bump.

-'**Fillmore..**' she whispered 'no it can't be.'

-'I'm okay!' he sounded tortured.

His voice was nothing but a distant noise, now that her thoughts were floating somewhere between _him _and the yellow sheet.

**Lets sneak, lets runaway.**

**P.S. I've always wanted to be a part of that scratch book.**

She felt 'mild' shivers _crawling_ on her spine, not only because her partner's moves were terribly _c__liché _but also because the only thing better than books, poetry and tea was _Fillmore__, _and the fulfilled sence of his presence around her.

-'Yes!' she screamed out almost laughing.

It immediately made Fillmore turn around and give her his usual _puzzled look__. _He looked slightly injured with pink scratches on his cheeks and two larger ones on both his elbows.

She held the sheet up, now against the sun ray that was brightening up her light green cat eyes and her raven black hair. He smiled. An image she wanted to _freeze _and _memorize _forever. For_ his _smiles would always be a tad bit distracting, but that _precise _smile was worth a thousand words.

-'Ingrid Third; gift her a poem and you'll win her heart.' he spoke mockingly.

She stood up and ran towards him, ready to punch him in the chest but -since he knew his beloved _ chum _extremely 'up to par'- he bent down and snatched up her fist , grabbing her wrist and held it downwards forcing her to enter his hug.

He held her tightly till the moment she had eventually stopped struggling.

-'You were saying...' he chuckled when she decided to look up.

Then she huffed but he knew that she was only trying to 'act like it'. Their eyes met again, and _hypnotizing _each other they had both managed to fall inside the deep hole of casual silence. They'd often do that, hence that very minute..it all felt horribly uncertain but oh, so enjoyable.

He glanced at her again, hoping she would say something, _something he'd want to hear of._

She responded then groaned, _delicately_ grabbed his arm.

-'Lets go.' she said cunningly in a low tone as the evening breeze messed with the 'shiny' locks of her hair, making her look so fragile in Fillmore's eyes.

_'Lets runaway'._


End file.
